


photosynthesize and drink up the sunrise

by addandsubtract



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Future Fic, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:17:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heero goes because he doesn’t have orders anymore, and Trowa, at least, is quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	photosynthesize and drink up the sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> written for the _ropes/chains_ square on my kink_bingo card. title from vienna teng's _never look away_.

**i.**

After everything, Heero follows Trowa back to Catherine, and the circus. For Trowa, he suspects that it’s comfortable – Trowa doesn’t belong anywhere, really, no more than Heero does, but he comes closest with Catherine.

Heero goes because he doesn’t have orders anymore, and Trowa, at least, is quiet. He pulls the quiet tight around him, like a cloak. Heero spent several weeks with him on the road, and there were stretches where they didn’t talk for days at a time. Heero could use a little of that right now.

Trowa, in what Heero has gathered is his default, doesn’t ask. When Heero hesitates on the threshold of the trailer, the night air brushing the bare skin of his arms and thighs and collarbones, Trowa looks back and lifts one shoulder, flicks a finger to beckon Heero in. Heero pauses for another moment, considering, and then follows.

Catherine has the master bedroom in the back, but the bench along one wall unfolds into a second bed. Trowa puts his duffel down next to the bedside table, and Heero does the same. They take turns brushing their teeth in the tiny bathroom. Trowa leaves space for Heero in the double bed and Heero joins him, thinking of space left between them on mattresses in hotel rooms, and wondering how many days left until someone finally took him up on his offer and shot him in the head. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

 

**ii.**

Heero stays out of the way, but that first night, he watches the show all the way through. He never went to the circus as a child, and while he thinks he could perform most of the acrobatics without much trouble, the experience is still worthwhile. Trowa and Catherine’s act is last.

When he watches Trowa secure himself to the target, a frisson of energy twists down his spine. He’s seen it before – Trowa flinched, once, he knows – but it’s different, now. Trowa’s wrists are so delicate and pale, with the sleeves of his turtleneck rolled up, and Heero thinks about how if he pulled enough, there would be ligature marks.

The first knife hits the target with a thud, to the left of Trowa’s ear, and Heero thinks about looking away. Not out of fear, but something else. Something he’s still not sure how to define. He doesn’t, though – he keeps his eyes trained on the long line of Trowa’s neck when he swallows, the relaxed droop of his fingers. Trowa could fall asleep right there he’s so calm.

Heero imagines loops of rope around his wrists, pressing into the ridges of his trachea – he imagines what it might be like to just let it happen. He’s been cuffed and captured and locked up, but somehow this is different. Potentially.

He’s breathing too fast, and he doesn’t know why. He thinks about leaving, but he doesn’t. He watches Trowa hold utterly still, and wonders if he’d manage the same.

 

**iii.**

Catherine cooks that night, and Heero catches himself watching Trowa’s wrists for flashes of pale skin as he reaches out for the ladle, or brings his spoon to his mouth. He doesn’t suppose that Trowa misses much – knows for a fact that he doesn’t, honestly – but he also can’t imagine Trowa bothering to bring it up unless absolutely necessary, and he can’t see why this would be. Heero doesn’t even know what it is, yet.

He has a dream that night of thick vines wrapping around his wrists and ankles, holding him taut and still, and when he wakes up he’s hard. He’s careful to turn on his side, away from Trowa’s even breath, and presses the heel of his palm against his dick. It doesn’t help.

It’s 5AM and he’d be up in half an hour anyway, so he slides out of bed and goes for a run. By the time he gets back, the horizon is starting to go pink with the edges of dawn, and the lions are yawning in their cages. Trowa’s awake, in the kitchenette with a cup of hot coffee and no shirt on. Heero is sweaty, but when Trowa offers his mug, Heero takes a sip, hands it back. Trowa is looking at him like there’s something to understand. Heero wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt, and heads for the shower. Underneath the water he jerks off slow, hand slippery with Catherine’s shampoo, cheek pressed against the smooth plastic wall. He tries to think of nothing in particular, but he doesn’t succeed.

 

**iv.**

Heero checks his messages after breakfast – he has a quick note from Duo about cleanup ops, and his daily missive from Relena. He’d agreed, before he left, that he should be kept in the loop as far as policy changes, political maneuverings. There’s a possibility that she’ll need him, at some point, even if the Gundams are done forever.

That time isn’t now, however, so Heero helps the tent crew set up, and relishes the chance at a day of easy manual labor. It’s easier not to think when his body is doing all the work.

He goes to the show again that night, but only to watch Trowa and Catherine. He sneaks in the back, looks through the side entrance where the acrobats enter and exit. Trowa stares straight ahead, eyes half-lidded, and Catherine is smiling her show smile. Heero wraps a hand around his own wrist, and tightens it, and tightens it.

 

**v.**

Heero stays. He watches the show at night, helps around camp during the day, goes for runs. He dreams, sometimes – some more vivid than others. One night he dreams that he’s kneeling with his hands tied behind his back, and he’s naked. There’s someone standing behind him, and he feels the cool press of the flat of a knife against his shoulder blade. Two fingers hook into the space between his bound wrists, and tug, just a little. He knows it’s Trowa without knowing how, feels lips skate over the shell of his ear.

“You’re helpless like this, and you like it, don’t you?” Trowa says, and Heero wakes up before he has to answer. He’s so hard he thinks about rutting into the mattress, but won’t risk the possibility of Trowa waking up and hearing him. He just makes it to the bathroom before he has his boxers around his ankles and his hand around his dick. Two strokes and he’s coming into the sink.

He’s only sixteen, and these things happen. He looks clinically at his semen, cooling in a splatter on the plastic basin, and then rinses it down the drain. Then he goes for a run.

 

**vi.**

Trowa still doesn’t talk much, but he does laugh at Catherine, sometimes, smiles at Heero in the morning over coffee. It’s possible that he’s just naturally closed-mouthed, but there’s no way that they’ll ever know that, at this point. Either of them. It’s possible that Trowa is naturally closed-mouthed, but Heero knows that in a different world, in a different kind of life, Heero would be different, so why shouldn’t Trowa be the same? Heero thinks that if he’d been given the chance, he’d have been more like Duo – more brash and loud, just as quick to anger but maybe more prone to sweetness, too. Now that he has the time to think about it, he wonders why he bothers. He won’t ever be that boy; he’ll only be this one. And neither one of them, the fictional boy in his head or the one he is now, would really know what to do with Trowa, fresh from the shower, hair slicked back against his skull. Or the way he’ll always take seconds with the express purpose of sharing food. Or the taut muscles underneath the cotton of his turtleneck, and how his mouth tightens when he’s asked a question he’d rather not answer.

Heero doesn’t know why it’s important that he catalogue these things, but it is, and so he does.

 

**vii.**

The night Heero wakes up with his heart pounding and his boxers sticky is the same night Trowa rolls over and opens his eyes. Heero stares at the ceiling for a long moment and considers himself. He’s not sure if he can actually smell his own come or if he’s imagining it.

“Nightmare?” Trowa asks, voice pitched low but not rusty. He’s been awake for a while. Longer than Heero has.

“No,” Heero says. “Not a nightmare.” His boxers are clammy against his skin, uncomfortable and wet.

“Ah,” Trowa says. “I thought not.”

Heero spends a moment wondering what kind of noises he’d made. He thinks about sliding out of bed and just leaving. He’d be okay. He could go back to Relena, and actually help her, instead of being a council from afar. He doesn’t move. After all, he can always do that.

“What were you dreaming about?” Trowa asks, and Heero hadn’t expected him to push. He turns his head to look, takes in Trowa’s mussed hair, the calm set to his face. He’s been thinking about this.

“Being tied up,” Heero says. Trowa doesn’t even raise his eyebrows, and Heero could be embarrassed, but Trowa gave him sponge bathes after he self-destructed, and he’s nearly died at least seven times in just the last year. “No,” he amends, “I was dreaming about you tying me up.”

If Trowa is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

“You watch me,” Trowa says. “And you watch the show.”

“Yes.”

Trowa hums a low, considering noise. Heero waits. “Than put your arms over your head,” Trowa says. “You can take off your boxers if you want. If they’re uncomfortable.”

If Heero were anyone else, he thinks he’d ask for clarification. He thinks normal people would do that, here – normal people would want to know what was happening. Heero doesn’t care. He tucks his hands underneath the covers and shimmies out of his boxers, pushing them onto the floor with a damp sound. Then he stretches his hands over his head and leaves them there. Trowa wraps one hand around both of Heero’s wrists and squeezes. Heero’s entire body trembles.

Trowa pulls out from underneath the covers, and slides until he has a knee on either side of Heero’s hips. He’s taller than Heero is, and so he can keep one hand around Heero’s wrists even as the weight of his body pushes Heero down into the mattress.

Heero feels secured. He feels effortless, like nothing is his responsibility. Like all of the choices are out of his hands. After everything, it’s a freeing feeling. There’s none of the fear of freefall, here, just the knowledge that nothing is his fault.

Trowa’s face is close to his, like this. They’re nearly sharing breath. “Yes?” Trowa asks.

Heero nods. He doesn’t trust his voice. He’s naked underneath the covers and Trowa’s body, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

 

**viii.**

They stay that way for a long time, until Trowa looks down at Heero’s face and sees something that satisfies him. He nods, draws back. Heero takes a moment to catch his breath, and by then Trowa is in the shower. Heero pulls on a pair of shorts and goes for a run.

That night during the show, Trowa seems to be staring right at him. Heero knows that it’s almost impossible that Trowa could see him through the lights, but it’s hard to know what Trowa is or is not capable of. Heero feels a swell of something in his chest that he later identifies as anticipation. It’s like being on the eve of battle – the knowledge that something will happen soon, and whatever it is will drastically change the status quo. Heero’s been the method of change enough. He’s been a weapon. He wants to be something else, now.

 

**ix.**

It takes two days, but Trowa comes back with soft leather cuffs, a delicate chain dangling between them. Heero looks at them, looks at the thin metal, and asks, “Gundanium?”

Trowa shrugs. Heero won’t make him explain himself, and that’s when Trowa wraps a hand around one of Heero’s wrists, anyway. Heero’s going to want rope, at some point, he knows that he is, but this is decadent in a way that Heero is aware he doesn’t deserve.

Heero goes still when Trowa buckles the first of the cuffs, but the second makes all the tension rush out of him, leaving him boneless and easy, stretched out on the bed. He doesn’t know where Catherine is, and he doesn’t care. Trowa secures the chain to a hook in the wall that Heero is certain he only recently installed, and then kneels between Heero’s spread thighs. Neither of them are naked, but it doesn’t matter. Heero hasn’t ever been at someone’s mercy this way. Not when Lady Une had him locked up, not even when Doctor J started his training. Trowa’s fingers are light on the inside of his arms, a slow stroking touch, and Heero focuses on breathing.

He loses track of time, but not in a way that he minds. When he comes back later, it’s to Trowa’s mouth on his cheek, and he turns his head into it. Trowa kisses him just as soft and even, almost entirely chaste. Heero’s never actually kissed anyone before. Trowa just kisses him on the lips, slow caresses, and touches his waist, the curve of his ribs. Heero thinks he’s probably hard, that maybe Trowa is, too, but that doesn’t matter so much, right now.

He could sleep, maybe. He feels more tired than he has in a long time, and more satisfied than he ever remembers being.

 

**x.**

He wakes up in the morning with his face pressed into Trowa’s neck, and Trowa’s hand pushed underneath his shirt, stroking over his back. He’s not uncomfortable, though he thinks someone else might be. Someone who isn’t him, and isn’t Trowa. He can feel Trowa’s pulse steady against his mouth. His arms aren’t secured anymore, but he can still feel the edges of the satisfaction he’d had last night.

It’ll be dawn, soon, but he doesn’t feel like moving, and so he doesn’t. Trowa’s awake, he can tell, but neither of them speak. They don’t have to. They never have.

He thinks about the likelihood that last night will happen again, and again. He thinks about Trowa’s hands on him, all over him, maybe even pushing inside him. They’re not typical, neither of them, but it doesn’t matter. They pay attention. They’ll get there.


End file.
